Page 17 of Claimed by the Enemy (Moretti Bratva #2)

Chapter Fifteen

Sophie

I wake up alone in my own bed for the first time in a week, and the emptiness feels like a physical ache.

Dom never came home last night. I stayed awake until nearly three, listening for his car in the driveway, for his footsteps on the stairs. Nothing.

My phone shows seven unanswered calls I made to Dom throughout the night, but he hasn’t returned a single one. Each call went straight to voicemail, and I’m too proud to leave a message begging him to come home.

I was wrong to accuse him of lying. Wrong to slap him when all he was doing was showing me evidence I’d been too scared to face. The look on his face when my palm connected with his cheek - hurt, confusion, disappointment.

I’ve pushed away the one person who’s been trying to protect me, and now I’m alone with the sickening possibility that everything Uncle Enzo taught me might be built on lies.

My stomach churns again, and I have to grip the edge of the bed to keep from being sick. Everything feels wrong - my emotions are all over the place, my body keeps betraying me, and I can’t tell if it’s stress or something else entirely.

All I know is that I need Dom to come home so I can apologize. So I can try to make sense of this mess together instead of tearing each other apart over secrets and lies.

But my phone stays silent, and I’m left wondering if I’ve finally pushed him too far.

A soft knock interrupts my spiraling thoughts. “Come in.”

Patrice appears with a breakfast tray, her usually warm smile replaced by gentle concern. “Good morning, Mrs. Moretti. I thought you might be hungry.”

“Thank you.” I sit up, accepting the coffee gratefully. “Any word from Dom?”

“He called this morning. Said he’d be staying at the office today.” Patrice hesitates. “He sounded… upset.”

Upset. Right. Because I’ve been lying to him for a week while pretending to be his partner.

“Patrice?” I ask as she starts to leave. “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“You’ve worked for Dom for a long time, haven’t you?”

“Nearly ten years.” She settles into the chair by the window. “Since shortly after he took over the company.”

“What was he like then? When he was younger?”

Patrice’s expression softens. “Lost. Very lost. He was only twenty-one when his uncle handed him control of everything, and I don’t think he’d had a single day to grieve properly.”

“Grieve?”

“His parents, dear. Such a terrible tragedy.” She shakes her head. “Riccardo brought him home from Italy like a broken thing. Wouldn’t speak to anyone for months, barely ate. I used to leave food outside his bedroom door and hope he’d take something.”

My chest tightens. “He was that young when they died?”

“Fifteen when his mother passed. Sixteen when his father… well, when the grief finally took him too.” Patrice’s voice grows quieter. “Riccardo did his best, but Dom never quite recovered from losing them both so close together.”

“Did he ever talk about what happened?”

“Only once. He asked me if I thought his parents were watching him, if they’d be proud of the man he was becoming.” She dabs at her eyes with a tissue. “I told him, of course, they would be. But I don’t think he believed me.”

I set down my coffee with shaking hands.

“Mrs. Sophie? Are you alright?”

“I’m fine.” But I’m not fine. I’m thinking about the business partnership documents, about Uncle Enzo training me to destroy a man who was probably still mourning his parents when I started planning his downfall.

“He’s never brought anyone here before,” Patrice continues. “In all my years working for him, you’re the first woman he’s ever introduced to his home.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, this house has been like a museum for ten years. Beautiful but empty. No laughter, no warmth, just Dom working himself to death in that study.” She smiles sadly. “But these past few weeks, with you here… It’s felt like a home again.”

“Patrice—”

“I’m not trying to interfere, dear. I just thought you should know that whatever trouble you two are having, Dom cares about you a lot. Believe me.”

After she leaves, I sit staring at my untouched breakfast, hating myself more with each passing minute.

Dom isn’t the monster Uncle Enzo painted him to be. He’s a man who lost his parents as a teenager and spent the next sixteen years building walls to protect himself from being hurt again.

And I’ve been systematically trying to tear down everything he built, all because Uncle Enzo told me it was justice.

But what if it’s not justice? What if it’s just revenge dressed up in prettier words?

My stomach churns, and I have to grip the edge of the bed—again—to keep from being sick. It’s been happening more frequently. Waves of nausea that hit without warning and leave me dizzy and shaken.

Stress, probably. Everything that’s happened in the past few weeks would be enough to make anyone sick.

I force myself to shower and dress, trying to push away the guilt that’s eating me alive. I need answers. Real answers, not the stories I’ve been fed since childhood.

Which means I need to find Uncle Enzo.

Dom thinks I’m protecting a killer, but I know my uncle. He raised me, taught me right from wrong, and held me when I cried for parents I barely remembered. He wouldn’t murder innocent people.

Would he?

I grab my purse and head downstairs.

Uncle Enzo is smart and careful. He wouldn’t stay in one place long, but he’d want to remain close enough to monitor the situation.

“Going out, Mrs. Moretti?” Vincent asks as I reach the front door.

“Just for a drive. I need some air.”

“Mr. Moretti asked me to accompany you if you left the house.”

“That’s not necessary.”

“I’m afraid I have to insist.”

I study Vincent’s polite but implacable expression. Dom’s protecting me, even when he’s furious with me.

“Fine. But I’m driving myself.”

Vincent nods and follows me to the garage, where I choose the least conspicuous car in Dom’s collection—a black sedan that won’t attract attention.

I spend the morning driving through neighborhoods where Uncle Enzo might feel safe. Areas with cash-only motels and small restaurants.

Vincent follows at a discrete distance.

By noon, I’ve checked six motels and spoken to a dozen desk clerks who all claim they’ve never seen Uncle Enzo’s photo. But at the seventh place, a run-down motor lodge near the highway, the manager glances at the photo a second too long before shaking his head.

“Never seen him,” he says, but his voice is too quick.

I’m walking back to my car when the nausea hits again, harder this time. I barely make it to the bushes beside the parking lot before I’m violently ill.

“You okay, lady?”

I look up to find a young man in maintenance coveralls watching me with concern. He’s got kind eyes and work-roughened hands.

“I’m fine,” I manage, wiping my mouth with a tissue. “Just something I ate.”

“You sure? You look pretty pale.”

“Really, I’m okay.” I straighten up, trying to regain some dignity. “Thank you for asking.”

He nods and heads back toward the motel, but not before glancing meaningfully at room 237.

The look lasts maybe two seconds. It could mean anything or mean nothing. But something about the way his eyes linger on that particular door makes my pulse quicken.

Am I really going to follow a random maintenance worker’s glance? Am I that desperate for answers that I’m reading significance into every casual look?

Probably. But I’ve come this far.

I wait until he disappears around the corner, then make my way toward the back of the building. Vincent is still parked by the front entrance, probably wondering what’s taking me so long. If he knew I was chasing shadows based on a stranger’s sideways glance, he’d think I’d lost my mind.

Maybe I have.

Room 237 is at the end of a long corridor, isolated from the other units.

I stand in front of the door for a full minute, my hand raised to knock, second-guessing myself. What if this is just some innocent family on vacation? What if I’m about to terrify some poor tourists because a maintenance worker happened to look in this direction?

What if Uncle Enzo isn’t here at all, and I’m chasing phantoms because I can’t accept that the man who raised me might actually be unreachable?

But what if he is here?

The thought decides it for me. I need answers, and this is the closest thing to a lead I’ve had in days.

I try the door handle first, expecting it to be locked. It turns easily.

Unlocked. In a cheap motel where people lock their doors against everything from bedbugs to burglars. That should be my first warning.

The room is dim, curtains drawn against the afternoon light. It smells like stale cigarettes and industrial carpet cleaner. Standard motel décor - two double beds, a scratched dresser, a television that probably hasn’t worked since the nineties.

And it’s empty.

I step inside, my eyes adjusting to the darkness. Maybe this was stupid after all. Maybe I’m losing my grip on reality, seeing conspiracies in random strangers’ glances and finding meaning in—

The door slams shut behind me.

I spin around to find three men in dark clothing stepping out from behind the door, moving with the kind of coordinated precision that screams professional training. They’re not motel staff. They’re not random criminals looking for an easy target.

They’re here for me.

“Sophie Moretti.” The one in the center speaks with calm authority, like he’s been expecting me. “We need you to come with us.”

Every survival instinct Uncle Enzo drilled into me kicks in at once. Don’t freeze. Don’t negotiate. Move.

I dive toward the bathroom, but I’m not fast enough. Strong hands grab my arms, pulling me back, and suddenly I’m fighting for my life in a dingy motel room that smells like broken dreams and desperation.

“Let me go!” I struggle against their grip, but there are three of them, and they’re all bigger than me. “Help! Someone help me!”

“No one’s going to hear you,” another voice says. “These walls are thicker than they look.”

Of course they are. Because why would anything about this situation be easy?

I manage to break free for a split second, long enough to grab a lamp from the nightstand and swing it at the nearest attacker’s head. He ducks, but it gives me enough time to dive for the bathroom.

“Stop fighting, and this will be easier,” one of them calls as I slam the door and fumble for the lock.

Easier for who?

I’m trapped in a bathroom the size of a closet, with no windows and one door that won’t hold for long. But it’s better than being in grabbing distance of three men who seem to know exactly who I am.

Think, Sophie. Uncle Enzo trained you for situations like this. What did he always say?

When you’re cornered, make yourself dangerous. Even the strongest predator thinks twice about prey that bites back.

I grab the toilet tank lid, hefting its porcelain weight in both hands. It’s heavy enough to do real damage if I can land a clean hit.

“Sophie Moretti,” another voice says from the other side of the door. “We’re not here to hurt you. We just need you to come with us.”

“Go to hell!”

Right. Because kidnappers are known for their honesty about their intentions.

They’re trying to break down the door now, the cheap wood splintering under repeated impacts. Each hit sends vibrations through the floor, through my bones, counting down the seconds until my makeshift shelter gives way.

Think. What would Dom do? What would Uncle Enzo do?

Dom would probably try to negotiate, use his business skills to find some kind of compromise. Uncle Enzo would fight until his last breath and take as many of them down as possible.

I’m not Dom. And I’m not Uncle Enzo either.

I’m Sophie Bellini, and I’ve been underestimated my entire life. These men think I’m just some pampered mafia princess who’s never been in real danger.

They’re about to learn otherwise.

The door gives way on the fourth hit, exploding inward in a shower of splinters and cheap paint. The first man through gets a face full of porcelain toilet tank lid, and I have the satisfaction of hearing him grunt in pain as he staggers backward.

But there are two more behind him, and they’re ready for me this time.

“Easy,” one of them says, grabbing my wrist and twisting until I drop the makeshift weapon. “We’re the good guys.”

“Good guys don’t break down bathroom doors!”

“Good guys don’t let innocent people get killed by bad guys either.”

I try to break free, putting every ounce of training Uncle Enzo gave me into the attempt. But there are two of them holding me now, and I’m not strong enough to fight them both. Not without weapons. Not without backup.

Not without Dom.

The thought of him hits like a physical blow. Dom, who thinks I’m safe at home. Dom, who has no idea I’m about to disappear into whatever nightmare these men have planned.

“Where’s my uncle?” I demand, still struggling against their grip.

“He’s fine. We’ll explain everything once we get you somewhere safe.”

“Safe from what?”

“From the man who’s been trying to kill you since the day you married Domenico Moretti.”

The words send ice through my veins. Not because they don’t make sense, but because they make too much sense. Someone has been orchestrating this from the beginning. Someone who benefits from Dom and me destroying each other.

But that doesn’t mean I trust these men to be my saviors.

“Let me go! Dom will come looking for me!”

“We’re counting on it.”

They’re already moving me toward the door, professional and efficient despite my struggles. One of them pulls out what looks like a black cloth bag.

A hood.

“No.” The word comes out strangled, panic finally breaking through my determination to stay calm. “No, please, don’t—”

“It’s just until we get where we’re going,” one of them says, almost gently. “For your protection as much as ours.”

“I won’t run. I swear I won’t run.”

“We know you won’t.”

The bag comes down over my head, plunging me into darkness that smells like fear and fabric softener. I can’t see anything, can barely breathe, and can only focus on the sound of my own heartbeat hammering against my eardrums.

This is how it ends, then, not in some dramatic final confrontation with Dom, not in a blaze of glory where I complete my mission and avenge my parents.

But in a cheap motel room, at the hands of men who claim to be saving me while they drag me toward some unknown fate.

Dom, I think desperately. Find me. Please find me.